


Start of Something Else

by thewritingkoala, Tina0609



Series: Tom & Charlie [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Coping, Drinking to Cope, Drunk!Tom, F/M, Grief, Minor Character Death, New Hope, Single Parents, Tom lost his wife, Widowed, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingkoala/pseuds/thewritingkoala, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tina0609/pseuds/Tina0609
Summary: Tom Hiddleston had it all. A beautiful wife, and a lovely daughter. When tragedy strikes he struggles to cope, until a twist of fate brings him face to face with Charlotte Cromwell, a doctor who will heal more than his daughter's head injury.





	Start of Something Else

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second series thewritingkoala and I write on Tumblr. Just as with Tom and Han these will be long one-shots, sometimes 3- or 4-chapter-fics. We try to make it chronological for the most part, but there will be time jumps again. Enjoy!

 

“I came,” Charlotte Cromwell pants as she nears the nurses in front of the examination room. “I came as fast as I could.”

They’ve called her for an emergency and being a paediatrician, Charlotte has so many images in her head of what could be wrong here.

Does she have to prepare for CPR? Are there going to be crying mothers clinging on to their children? Bad cuts, allergic reactions?

The nurse named Mary winces. “Actually,” she starts, exchanging a glance with her colleague. “It’s not an emergency.”

“But… But you paged me. It said emergency.”

“Yeah, well. It’s probably three to four stitches on the forehead. A four year old girl.”

Charlotte frowns. That, indeed, is not an emergency. “But…”

“It’s the father,” Mary interrupts. “He’s a little unresponsive and panicky and we need to calm him.”

Charlotte shrugs. It’s not  _that_  uncommon for a parent to be worried. They’re in the ER after all.

“It’s Tom Hiddleston,” Mary then whispers.

“Oh.”

Oh, indeed. Everyone - well, not everyone - but every staff member in the hospital knows of the story of Tom and Emily Hiddleston and their - his - story with this place.

Married before his big break, they quickly became a Hollywood dream. No scandals, no nothing. Then the internet started a collective cooing when just four years ago, in April of 2013 little Evie Hiddleston was born.

The collective cooing turned into a collective gasp when three months ago, in January of 2017, Emily was admitted to hospital after a driver, who suffered a heart attack, drove onto the sidewalk and it was too late for her to jump back. She died two days later in this very hospital.

“Maybe you can work your charm on him? Calm him down? We’re a little afraid he’s about to suffer a heart attack himself.”

Charlotte nods. It’s understandable to be panicking in these circumstances surely.

“I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”

When she enters the room, she is greeted with the sight of a - as Charlotte knows - almost four year old girl with curly brown hair, crying and sniffling quietly and hugging a pink stuffed elephant. There’s a bandage around her head already, but Charlotte can still make out a little blood underneath.

She ignores the man sitting on the chair - alternating between biting his thumb and bouncing his leg while staring straight ahead - for the moment and focuses on the child first.

“Hi,” she greets in a light tone. “I’m Charlie.”

The girl takes the offered hand bravely, shaking it. “My name is Evie Hiddleston. I’ve been here before,” the pretty little girl continues, and Charlotte swallows. Yes, Evie has been here before, and she wonders how traumatic those hospital visits might have been.

“You sent my Mommy to Heaven, didn’t you?” the child asks, unleashing the full force of big, blue, shiny eyes on her, the lashes spiky with half-dried tears.

As a doctor at the pediatric ward, Charlie has to deal with similar scenarios all the time–but that doesn’t make it any easier. Choosing her words carefully, she says., “It was time for her to go, and we helped her along the way.”

Evie nods solemnly. “Is it time for me to go too? I think Daddy is worried about that.”

Jesus freaking Christ. Keeping her composure, Charlotte shakes her head. “Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ll have you fixed in a jiffy.”

She turns towards the father, who’s begun rocking himself a little, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Excuse me, Mr. Hiddleston?”

No reaction.

“Mr. Hiddleston?” she repeats louder, lifting a hand and debating whether to touch him or not. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a navy-blue sweater, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. There’s drying blood on the sweater, and his blondish-brownish hair looks as if he’s run his hand through it a million times.

When there’s still no reaction, she touches his bare wrist. “Mr. Hiddleston?!”

The man in front of her jerks violently as if he hasn’t even realised there are other people in the room.

He doesn’t look like the Hollywood actor Charlotte has seen in the newspapers a couple of weeks ago, attending the premieres.

Then again, there were rumours he had a little too much fun with alcohol during the premiere and after party. At least he smiled.

“I…she…I don’t…” he stammers and Charlotte pities him a bit. His little girl is definitely braver than him at the moment.

“It’s okay,” she says. “We’ve got her. It’s four stitches tops. We’ll give her a small shot before and she won’t feel anything.”

From the girl, Charlotte hears a soft whimper. “I don’t wanna be hurt,” she sniffles.

Charlotte realises that she’s still touching the man’s wrist when she wants to go back to Evie. She retreats her hand hastily, crouching in front of the girl. She’s not sure if it’ll work on the daughter of…well… Loki, but it’s worth a try.

“You know what, Evie? We have something special in those shots.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s a serum. And it’ll turn you into a super hero. Then I can even pinch your head with a needle and you won’t feel anything.”

Charlotte glances at Evie’s father, who - like Evie - looks far from convinced, still breathing a little ragged and looking like he’s going to pass out.

“Like Loki?” asks the little voice.

Well, this isn’t the time to be picky with your heroes. “Like Loki,” she nods.

The little girl giggles, then winces in pain. “My Daddy is Loki. So I can’t be Loki too.”

Children and their logic. Charlotte suppressed an indulgent smile. “You’re right. But you can be Loki’s sidekick. You can try shifting shapes like him.”

The girl’s blue eyes grow even wider. “I can?” she breathes, then sneaks a glance at her distressed father. “I can be your side…side-hit, Daddy.”

For the first time, she can see some life and recognition crawl onto the man’s face. “It’s side-kick, Evie. And of course you can. Couldn’t think of a better side-kick for Loki.”

Puffing up her little chest–which makes her grimace with pain again–his daughter holds out an arm. “Okay. I want my serum. I won’t even cry.”

Charlotte breathes a sigh of relief. She gets up and grabs everything she needs, testing the syringe.

There’s a low, tortured groan and Mr. Hiddleston gets out of the chair so fast it scrapes loudly across the linoleum floor. She watches as he stalks to the small window and leans his forehead against the glass, his hands griping the window sill. She hears a mumbled “sorry” and ragged breathing. When he speaks again, his voice wobbles and makes her heart clench. “Just tell me when you’re done. I just…I can’t…I can’t look at her being poked with needles and…and…”

“It’s okay,” he hears softly behind him from the doctor he doesn’t know the name of.

And then his daughter repeats, “It’s okay,” behind him.

Tom has to hold in a sarcastic chuckle. It’s not okay. It hasn’t been for three months and it’ll never be again.

It hurts. God, it hurts so much. It’s worse today, here, than it’s been the day it happened. No, that’s a lie. It hurt like hell that day. And it still hasn’t stopped.

But today, seeing his little daughter bleeding and crying and feeling so helpless again? The images that flashed through his mind almost were too much. They still are.

“Maybe we can talk to your daddy a little, you know? Did you already tell him what you want for supper tonight?”

A tiny smile reaches his mouth. Tom already knows that answer. “Pancakes!” his girl shouts on cue.

“Pancakes?” the doctor gasps. “In the evening? Wow!”

With a solemn expression, the little girl nods. “Breakfast food is the BEST food. Daddy says so.”

Charlotte can’t hide her grin. “Well, if Daddy says so, then it must be true.” She lowers her tone to a mock whisper. “Tell me, can your Daddy cook?”

While Evie scrunches up her face to think and talk, she discreetly gets the syringe ready. The child doesn’t even realize it when she’s poked, jabbering about her father’s yummy spaghetti bolognese and more breakfast food. “And I HATE blueberries, but I LOVE st-awberries, so Daddy makes sure that I get to eat lots of st-awberries. Just like Mommy those days. And then…”

Slowly, her words slur and fade as Charlotte makes her lie back.

Mr. Hiddleston turns abruptly, takes one look at his daughter out cold, and rushes back to her side. She can see his jaw clench and almost feel the pain of his teeth grinding together. Ignoring the chair, he sinks to his knees beside her and takes her hand, cradling it gently despite the tension rolling off his long, lean body.

Charlie suppresses the odd urge to run a comforting hand over his unruly hair and concentrates on the task at hand.

“She’s out cold,” the doctor next to him whispers.

The words send a shudder all over Tom’s body. His wife - ex wife? Former wife? Dead wife? - was out cold as well. The last words they shared were “who’s picking up the laundry?” No great goodbye, no nothing.

Tom jerks when the doctor moves and changes positions to be next to Evie’s head. “I need to take off the bandage. The wound needs stitches the nurses have told me. So…”

She trails off, and Tom wonders if he really makes the impression of being so deranged that he can’t be talked to properly.

His breathing becomes ragged again, the world tilts and Tom almost ends up flat on his butt when the doctor slowly removes the bandage from his girl’s head. And there he’s got his answer. Yep, deranged.

Tom scrambles to his feet and hastily turns around, walking back to the window. He can’t even comfort his daughter. He needs to get a grip for fuck’s sake.

“You know, I understand,” the doctor says. “It must be hard for you to be back here.”

“Everything’s hard for me these days. But thank you.” He probably sounds harsher than he’s intended. And the innuendo that doesn’t leave his lips after he’s said this like it would have three short months ago shows where his mind is at the moment. Anywhere but here.

“It’ll only take five minutes and then we’ll wait for your daughter to wake up and you can take her home with you and make her pancakes. But not with blueberries,” the doctor laughs softly.

But Tom is - again - not listening but using all of his strength to stay in the room.  _“We’ll wait for your wife to wake up,”_ echoes through his mind. She didn’t.

A sob leaves him. He knows he’s not rational, but he needs to know. “Evie is going to wake up, right?” he asks the window.

If she’s surprised by the question, the doctor doesn’t show it. “Of course she will. I’ll stay with you until then.”

* * *

In her years at the hospital–and before that during her training period at a different hospital–Charlotte has literally seen it all. She’s shared the highest highs and lowest lows with her little patients and the grown-ups, has wept with nurses, cursed with doctors, laughed or prayed with patients.

She’s told herself again and again to harden her heart a little so that she won’t be so affected by every single case. But she’s always been too soft-hearted, as if somebody decided her strong will needed to be counterbalanced. And right now, Mr. Hiddleston is on his way to break her damn soft heart.

Charlie hears a strangled sob, then him clearing his throat and obviously fighting for compsure, or maybe sanity.

God, she remembers him from before the tragedy. I mean, who in their right mind didn’t know him and love him at least a bit? The internet’s boyfriend, the human ray of sunshine, the impeccably-mannered and eloquent gentleman. Not much of that is left–not even the famous, award-winning actor, for he’s crawled into a snail’s house since his wife’s death and done neither filming nor promotions, as far as she knows.

“Mr. Hiddleston?” she asks tentatively while focusing on the first stitches.

“Call me Tom,” comes his half-croaked reply. “Mr. Hiddleston only makes me think of people calling my…wife Mrs. Hiddleston.”

Well, damn. It looks like nothing she says will do any good.

“Okay, Tom,” Charlie starts, “I’m Charlotte. Or doctor Cromwell, if you prefer. I’m just so used to introduce myself to children. They don’t really like the “doctor Cromwell”. You can call me Charlie too.“ Oh god, she’s babbling. “If you want.”

“Thank you, Charlie.” So, that’s settled then.

She nods to herself until she realises that Mr… Tom can’t see her, and she really should try to make him a little more comfortable.

“Do you want to tell me about Evie? Is she a wild child?”

“She is,” Charlotte hears softly. “A ray of sunshine really, despite what’s…happened.” Charlie winces. “And so wild. Running around all the time. That’s… That’s why we’re here. Ran straight into a door, that one.”

Charlotte snickers a bit. “I can imagine. She’s a brave one though.”

“That she is,” Tom says quietly, his voice beginning to shake again. “How much longer?”

Charlotte puts the instruments aside, planting a plaster on the little forehead. “The stitches are done actually. Shouldn’t be much longer now.”

She sees Tom nodding slowly as he stands a little taller, trying to compose himself obviously. “Okay,” he whispers, still hesitant to turn around as it seems.

Charlotte’s heart really can’t take much more.

Tom tries to take a deep breath, something he seems to be doing all the time these days. As if getting some air into his lungs were enough to make things right. Anger mixes with pain for a moment, as it sometimes does when he’s had too much to drink. It’s so fucking unfair. How can it be right to separate two people so much in love? Two people with a small child?

He feels the jolt of pain that is so familiar now, of his nails digging into his palm. He’s had worse. Tried to distract himself from the constant searing ache in his heart by punching a wall and nursing bruised knuckles.

Sound registers. It’s the doctor–Charlie–in that gentle, caring tone she has that only makes him feel a million times worse although he knows she’s trying to help. He doesn’t want help. Correction, he doesn’t want to need help.

Squaring his jaw, he turns and tells himself to look at Evie with her plaster and serene expression. His gaze wanders to the woman leaning over her and removing her gloves. For the first time, he makes himself look at her so she’s more than a blurry, kind face. She’s got stunning eyes, with flecks of green and gold in there.

“Pardon?” he asks, feeling like the dumbest dumbo in town.

There’s that heartbreakingly kind smile again which makes him realize he’s a useless arse these days.

“I’ll write you a list of medicine, just some child-friendly painkillers and such. You shouldn’t wash her hair for a few days or expose the wound to water or dirt.”

When he grimaces and nods, she brightens her smile. “She’ll be fine in next to no time. She’ll probably have a cute little scar, one to match yours, which I’m sure she’ll find exciting.”

The harsh words are out before he can lock them in. “How about the scars inside her little heart that match mine, huh? Are those cute too?”

* * *

Charlie jerks away from him for a split second. Okay, no small talk and trying to ease his tension then. He may not know - or better yet, realise - this at the moment, but he’s not the first father, uncle, brother or son who’s been rough with her. She’s had her fair share of dying children, thank you very much.

“No, Tom, it isn’t cute. And you know what? It won’t go away by being mean to people that try to help. Neither her scar nor yours,” she starts and sees how Tom stares at her like a deer in headlights. She’s not finished yet. “Unfortunately though, it’s there. And I’m sorry, but I can’t help that. I’m just a doctor who is here because your daughter ran into a door. That’s not my fault, either.”

She doesn’t get louder, there’s really no need to. Still, the actor in front of her looks like he’s been yelled at. Maybe slapped as well. Too bad, as sorry as she feels, Charlie’s spent almost 24 hours in here, she doesn’t appreciate his tone either.

“I’m…”

But before he can continue, she does. “I’m being nice to my patients in general, because they’re children. And to their parents as well, because they’re stressed. I’ve known about your situation, obviously, and by me talking I’ve hoped to stop you from fainting or panicking and scaring your little girl along the way.” Goodness, this feels so good for her.

Tom is still staring at her, not saying anything. “She should wake up soon, I’m going to write down that medicine for you.”

With that Charlotte turns around and walks to the little table by the wall where they keep pencils and paper.

She takes a deep breath and berates herself a little. No, this wasn’t the best way to talk to a parent. Yes, she knows he’s been through a lot. But honestly? He doesn’t seem like he’s listening anyway. And if he does, Charlotte’s pretty sure that nobody told him to get a grip recently.

They won’t ever see each other again, it won’t matter.

The silence in the room is deafening. Charlotte can hear the scratch of her pencil on the paper and her own breathing which is slightly ragged because she’s agitated.

The soft, hoarse “thank you” behind her startles her into dropping the pencil. She takes her time picking it up and writing the receipt before turning around, no idea what to expect.

Mr. Hiddleston–Tom–looks chagrined but also strangely thoughtful.

“You don’t have to thank me for treating your daughter,” she says somewhat stiffly. “It’s my job.”

One of his long-fingered hands shoves through his disheveled hair. “I wasn’t thanking you for that. I…Actually, I want to thank you for putting me in my place.” He grimaces and breaks eye contact, busying himself with rolling down his sleeves. “For the past few months, people have been handling me with so much care that I began wallowing in my very own pity party.”

Tom straightens and meets her gaze again. “And while I’m allowed to mourn, that gives me no right to be mean to others.”

Her retort–and she’s got no idea what to say to that–is interrupted by the sounds of Evie waking up. Tom rushes to his daughter’s side and murmurs and coos, and for one second, Charlotte can see the man admired by millions, buried beneath layers but still there.

* * *

Four days later, Charlotte is - again - paged by Nurse Mary.

“Your presence is demanded,” is the greeting she receives as she turns up at the treatment room.

Charlie raises a brow. “Really? Who wants my consultation?” It’s a little strange. Every time a colleague wants an opinion it’s usually them who ask - personally.

“No, someone demanded ‘Doctor Charlie’ specifically.”

“What?” Charlie panics. Is it someone she knows? Well, it must be, who else would call her Charlie? Oh god, is it one of her nephews?!

“Keep calm,” Mary says, touching her arm. “Evie Hiddleston is here for a check-up on her head wound. She - and actually Mr Hiddleston as well - asked for you.” Mary can’t hide her smirk and Charlotte can’t help but roll her eyes. It’s always gossip with this one.

“I’m going in then.”

And so she does. Charlotte is more than a little surprised to see Tom - does she still call him that?- sitting in the chair looking quite relaxed. He’s almost lounging really. And giggling - actually giggling - at something his daughter must have said.

“Well, hello there. You look very healthy, Evie,” Charlotte starts as a greeting, watching the little girl bouncing in front of her father, one hand of his in her two small ones.

Evie Hiddleston turns around and grins. “Hello Charlie,” she shouts and runs towards her, ready to shake the doctors hand. As they do, Evie smiles brightly. “You know what I did today?”

“No, tell me.”

“I drove the cab here. With daddy. He didn’t wanna take the car. He shouldn’t, he said.”

Charlie glances at the man whose smile has faded a little. “So, you took a cab?”

The little girl nods. “Yep. And then I was aaaaall exiteded.”

“Excited, Evie,” Tom says softly, now standing as well. Something is off. He’s so relaxed. But also looking a bit… is that unsteady? He has to find his footing there for a moment, before he crosses the room, holding out a hand as well. “I don’t think we’ve prop'ly introduced ourselves the last time. Didn’t shake your hand then.”

Charlotte takes his hand, which is - in fact - a little clammy. “Tom.”

“Hi, Charlie,” the actor grins, eyes not fully focused. “Hope you’re well.”

This isn’t all that difficult, is it? Tom feels a little proud he hasn’t had two-three panic attacks yet although he’s back at the hospital. Liquid courage, they call it. Yup, a very apt term. But perhaps it’s also liquid perceptiveness because he’s noticing all sorts of things he’s missed the last time.

Like the prettiness of Doctor Charlie. Not only does she have those enticing flecks of colour in her irises that he remembers from last time, but she also has copper and blondish strands in her hair that look too natural to be highlights. And he hadn’t realized how short she is, more than a head shorter than him.

Evie tugs at his hand. “Daddy?”

“Yes, munchkin?”

“Tell Charlie how brave I was.”

He nods enthusiastically, regretting the movement a bit when he feels unsteady. “Should def’ly tell Doctor Charlie that. She didn’t cry even once. Nope. So brave.”

“Daddy cried, though,” his daughter stage-whispers, making him flinch and sway. “He thinks I didn’t notice,” she adds while leaning close to the pediatrician. “But I did. I was only pre…pretensing to sleep.”

Oh god, Charlie thinks to herself, he’s drunk, isn’t he? Or at least tipsy. Quite tipsy. She tries hard not to let the recognition show on her face.

Instead she looks down at Evie, hearing her heart breaking confession. She doesn’t know if she should ignore it or ask questions. So she chooses the middle

“So, you young lady actually pretend to be asleep at night?” Evie nods a little and actually looks guilty. “Do you at least do exciting things then?”

“No,” Evie sighs. “But I hear daddy cry a lot.”

Before she can even see Tom processing that information - he has a face that tells you a lot after all - Charlotte speaks again. “You know, Evie, it’s quite alright for grown-ups to cry.”

She ignores Tom’s jerk of the head - which makes him sway a bit again - and crouches down in front of the little girl. “You cry sometimes as well, right?” The little girl nods. “When you’re sad or hurt, right? So. Parents are sad or hurt sometimes as well. As your daddy is at the moment.”

“Because my mummy died.” She states it so matter of factly that Charlotte doesn’t even try to lie or hide the truth. What’s the point anyway? It’s not like Mrs Hiddleston is going to come back.

“Because your mummy died.”

“Well,” Charlotte makes out Tom’s voice from above her. “We figured'out I cry. Nice. Can we con…con… go on? Now? We’ve somewhere to be.” He’s still trying to smile happily, but some of that grin from before has vanished.

“Where?” Evie asks, holding on to her daddy’s hand, while casting him a questioning look.

Charlotte lifts an eyebrow. Hopefully, the only thing he’ll do today is to drink lots of water and coffee and not leaving the house anymore - let alone with a child. “Yes, where?”

He falters for a moment. “Somewhere else than here.”

“You’re funny, daddy,” Evie giggles and Charlotte is simply happy that the little girl has no idea what’s going on.

“Thanks, munchkin.”

Charlotte sighs as she gets up. Turning a little to her right, she whispers, hoping she’s close enough for Evie not to hear, “I really hope they have coffee wherever you need to be. And I also hope you won’t take Evie with you,” she rushes out, before she takes the little girl’s hand, that isn’t held by her dad.

“Let’s check your head, you brave girl, okay?”

* * *

Busted.

Tom sighs dramatically, his smile fading. He should’ve known they’d know, especially Doctor I-see-right-through-you Charlie. Sure, he’s an actor, but he can’t act to save his life when it isn’t in front of a camera.

“Munchin?”

Evie turns back to him. “Yeah?”

“Can you be brave for a bit more and go with the doc? Daddy will go get some coffee so he can be even funnier.”

“Okay. I trust Charlie,” his daughter says with that heart-breaking solemnity she sometimes displays, and he plasters another grin on his face.

“Great. Be back in a ji… Sooner than soon.”

He speed-walks to the coffee machine in the waiting room, hoping he doesn’t look like he feels–like a sailor bracing rough currents on a ship, swaying from side to side. He doesn’t want to guzzle the horrible stuff they dare to call coffee in these places, doesn’t want to sober up and well, man up and face his fears. But the censorship in Charlotte’s voice and eyes cuts him to the quick. It’s as if she’s calling him out on being a bad parent, and that’s about the worst thing somebody could throw in his face.

Dammit, why does being a responsible adult have to suck?!

Getting the coffee is a task way more difficult than he originally thought. The beers and the gin tonic he’s had before walking out of the house earlier - after the drinks he slowly consumed throughout the day - are slowly catching up with him now.

He’s just happy the waiting room is almost empty and that those two people in there seem to have different problems than an actor trying to get that stupid coffee machine to work.

Somehow that stupid money doesn’t go where Tom originally thought it would. He giggles quietly to himself when he does find the right place, gets that stupidly small paper cup and leans with his back against the wall next to the machine.

He winces a bit at the burning - and horrible tasting - sensation, leans his head against the wall as well and closes his eyes.

Okay, not a good idea, he realises in the next moment when the “sailor on a ship”-feeling becomes a little more apparent.

With a gasp he straightens up before he can fully sway to the side and sighs heavily. This was so much easier this morning when he had this brilliant idea. He just didn’t calculate the factor of Dr Charlie to be here. Well, he’s hoped for it but differently.

He’s becoming more tired it feels like despite drinking that horrible stuff. Maybe if he closes his eyes for a moment? So he does, leaning against the wall as well as the machine next to him to stop himself from falling.

Good plan.

* * *

Charlie is long done with her lovely little patient and they’ve already talked about Lego, how Evi wants a kitten–or maybe a bunny, or maybe a kitten and a bunny–and about how horrible brussels sprouts taste, and there is still no trace of Tom.

The beginnings of a guilty conscience are prodding her. Was she too harsh on him? Didn’t a lot of grieving people drink one too many because nothing else seemed to help? Then again, how could she not be harsh–he’s a parent, an only parent no less, and it’s irresonsible to drink and bring his daughter here. Torn between wanting to rip his head off and wanting to help, Charlotte decides she should do neither. It’s not her place to judge, and technically neither of the two are her patients or have asked for her opinion. She’s got a life of her own, and she’ll live it without the distraction of this wonderful girl and her once wonderful father, thank you very much.

A small hand grabs hers and she snaps out of her thoughts to glance down at Evie.

“Charlie?”

“Yes, Evie?”

“Do you think Daddy is hiding somewhere and crying again? He’s still not here.”

Well, hell.

“Does he usually like to drink coffee?”

The child nods enthusiastically. “Daddy loooooves coffee. Mommy used to say if he didn’t love food so much too, all the coffee would have burned a hole into his stomach already.”

Charlie giggles along with Evie, but feels her heart squeeze in her chest.

“Why don’t we go see whether your father has lost his way while hunting for coffee in the dangerous corridors of the hospital wilderness?” she asks, pulling Evie to her fet.

The girl bounces giddily, and off they go on their mission–a mission that brings her to a gasping halt when she spots Tom, slouched against the coffee machine and snoring ever so softly with his mouth half open.

Is it too late to turn around so Evie doesn’t see? One glance down tells Charlotte it is, indeed.

Evie stares, open mouthed, at her father. Oh god, how to comfort her? She’s a doctor, she doesn’t know how to deal with children seeing their parents drunkenly leaning against a freaking coffee machine.

But to her surprise, Evie starts giggling, covering her mouth with one hand. She tucks at Charlie’s hand and points. “Look, Charlie. Daddy’s snoring!”

Sometimes, seeing all those things happening in this place, Charlotte forgets just how innocent children can be.

“You think he’s tired?” Evie asks.

“Probably.”

Tom’s daughter looks all excited to go wake up her daddy. But what happens if he’s actually too drunk to react properly? Will it scare her? Shouldn’t Charlie try to protect her?

She looks a few feet to her left where the nurse’s station is. Mary is there, chatting away with a colleague, assumingly on a break.

“Hey, Evie?”

“Hm?”

She looks down at the child. “You want to wait with my friend Mary while I wake up your daddy? You can play a trick on him and wait where he can’t see you and then pop up out of nowhere, just like Loki’s side-kick would do.”

While she explains, she’s waving Mary over, the nurse first walking a little hesitantly, but then seemingly understands as soon as she sees the actor. Her eyes widen a bit, but Charlie shakes her head no.

“I don’t wanna go,” Evie pouts.

“Do you like Hobnobs?”

At the mention of those, Evie’s eyes brighten. “With chocolate?”

“But of course,” Charlie nods, shifting Evie’s small hand slowly into Mary’s. “Mary, we want to surprise Tom over there a bit. Could you watch Evie for a few minutes?”

Mary nods and just opens her mouth to say something as Evie interrupts. “And then I pop up!”

They all laugh, Evie now happily bouncing away.

Okay then, Hiddleston, Charlie thinks to herself as she moves towards the actor.

She stands right in front of him, blocking the view a bit. “Tom.” Nothing. “Tom?” Still, no reaction. “For fuck’s sake, Tom,” she hisses next, slapping his arm.

He jerks, sways and holds one arm out next to him to grab at the machine. “Fuckityshitdamn…what?” Wide blue eyes stare at her.

* * *

The first thing he registers is pain, then dangerous swaying as he feels himself unbalance and shoots an arm out blindly. Bloody ship and waves and… Wait, the whole sailor on a ship thing isn’t real, right?

Oh. He opens his eyes wide, seeing green-gold-brown and somehow distinctly feeling heated anger radiating from the source in palpable waves. There he goes again with his ocean metaphors.

Tom blinks, resists scrubbing a hand over his face because he’d like to not fall flat on his face, thank you very much.

The picture rights itself slowly.

“Ch-Charlie,” he blurts out, realizing all at once that he’s fallen asleep and she’s slapped him awake. Huh. She’s quite pushy, isn’t she?

And why the hell didn’t the coffee burn some sense into him? Probably because it isn’t real coffee. Certainly didn’t taste like a liquid passable as coffee, if you ask him.

But nobody ever seems to ask him anything anymore. Certainly nobody asked him whether he’d like to lose his wife.

Fucking hell.

Gritting his teeth, Tom stands up straight and scrambles for a modicum of dignity, removing his hand from the machine and composing his face.

“So…is Evie ready?”

“Is Evie…” the woman in front of him asks. But more like asking herself it seems. “Is Evie ready…he asks if Evie’s ready… falling asleep and asking, if Evie’s ready. Like nothing happened…”

Okay, that’s a bit strange now. And rude. Yes, he’s had a bit to drink, but it’s not like he’s stupid. He can hear Dr Charlie perfectly fine.

“That'just rude, ya know?” Okay. First rule, compose yourself before talking. No slurring, no nothing. Shaking his head to himself isn’t a good idea, Tom finds out a second later. Still kind of blurry here.

“Rude?” Tom winces when he hears the steel in her voice and sees the ire in her eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, then looks around. At least his daughter thinks he’s funny. His daughter standing right…what? “Evie?” Where the fuck is his daughter? Oh god, did they find something? Is she ill?

Charlie sighs. Actually, sighs like she doesn’t have a care in the world. “She’s fine, she’s not ill.” Oh. He’s said that one out loud hasn’t he? “Wanted to wake you up alone in case you got sick or something.”

“Aw,” Tom can’t help but coo. “That’s so consd…concen… cons'derate of you. Thank. You,” he nods gravely.

Charlie would cheerfully give her right arm for a bucket of water right now. Make that a bucket of ice to hurl at his face. Or maybe she could slap him on the pretense of really waking him up as that wouldn’t make a mess on the hospital floor?

Instead, she counts to five, grits her teeth and says, “I did it out of consideration for Evie, not for you.”

“Oh.” He blinks at her owlishly, then gives her such a sad, drooping puppy dog face that her slapping urge abruptly turns into a hugging urge.

He’s all pouty and shiny-eyed and Charlie has to actually clench her hands into fists so she doesn’t reach out to smoothen the wrinkles on his broad forehead.

“Thanks ‘nyway. I guess.”

Before she can react, Evie pops up from nowhere, shouting a gleeful “boo”.

Tom gasps, tries to turn towards the sound, loses his balance and ends up clutching Charlie. And as if this is a movie in dire need of some comedic relief, she loses her balance too and backpedals unsteadily. He’s surprisingly heavy and all gangly llimbs, and before she knows it, she’s stumbled to the floor and Tom is half-draped across her body, his scruffy face between her boobs.

* * *

Oh god, oh god, this can’t be happening. She’s not on the floor, being squashed by Tom Hiddleston.

The groans he’s making, paired with the nuzzling - nuzzling! - are not helping here in the slightest.

It takes a moment longer than Charlotte likes to admit to come to her senses. Mostly because Evie stands next to them laughing loudly and Charlie is sure she can hear Mary in the background as well. Cackling.

Tom still hasn’t moved and is still nuzzling - nuzzling! - her while his hands pinch her hips. Well, he’s moved a little then.

“Gotcha!” Evie giggles, and Charlie can only just stop her from bouncing onto Tom’s body in the last moment.

“Evie, no, love please, that’s not a good idea.” The last thing she needs is Tom puking on her. He’s not snuggling up to her, is he? So, it’s time to slap his arm. Again. “Tom! Get off.”

He actually does move. Groaning and panting and mumbling. He rolls over, face a deep shade of red. Crimson. “Sorry, ter'bly sorry,” he murmurs, lying flat on his back.

Before it can get even more embarrassing - can it? - Chalie scrambles to her feet. “You did pop up, Evie. Well done,” she forces out. Her face his hot, she’s sweating and she swears she’s going to kill Tom Hiddleston.

That Tom Hiddleston, who slowly and with his eyes closed gets up into a sitting position, having to steady himself by leaning on both hands planted behind his arse on the floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again. “Shit I’m drunk.”

And here’s to hoping Evie didn’t catch that.

“You said a bad word, Daddy!” Evie announces loudly before subsiding into more giggles.

Well, so much for hoping Evie didn’t catch his words.

Totally out of her league, Charlie debates imitating Tom and just lying down on the floor, hoping a hole will mysteriously open up and swallow her. She’s absolutely not going to think of how heavenly his scruff felt when he nuzzled - nuzzled! - her. Nope. Not going to think of those tiny noises he made either. Nopity nope.

JFC, she needs to get her sh…stuff together. There’s a small group of spectators forming already, her face is as crimson as Tom’s, and he still hasn’t opened his eyes or moved from his sitting position. And now Evie plonks herself onto his lap and pats his cheeks.

“Daddy, are you gonna go to sleep again?”

Brilliant, just brilliant.

Mary is still cackling, and she’s pretty sure she can hear people whispering Tom’s name.

There’s another mumbled “sorry” before Tom opens one eye.

It’s blurry. It’s all terribly blurry and spinning and Tom only has a faint idea of how he ended up on the floor.

But he does know that his daughter is currently sitting in his lap. And he hears other people talking as well.

She’s asked him something, hasn’t she? “No. ’m not gonna sleep again. Prom’s.”

Evie nods understandingly. So considerate. “Okay. But you can. I’m fine.” Then she holds up a pinky or two for a pinky promise. Goodness, he needs a hand for this doesn’t he? And actually has to see properly.

So, he does and manages pretty well. “Know I can. But I won’t. You’d scared me, lil’ one.”

His daughter giggles and if it isn’t the prettiest sound in the world he doesn’t know what is.

Tom jerks and almost falls over swaying again when another face appears in his line of sight. “Tom?” the face asks. Oh. Charlie. Again.

“Hm?”

“Maybe you should get up,” she whispers.

Yeah. Getting up. That’d be a good idea. He’s got no idea how though, without completely losing his dignity. This was such a bad idea. Getting drunk sounds way more fun if you aren’t the only one in broad daylight and not at a party.

“Can’t,” he whispers back. At least he thinks he does. God, Emily would laugh at him so loudly now. He’s pretty sure she does. She always loved when he’s nuzzled her neck though. Or breasts. He’s a fun drunk usually.

Evie immediately jumps up. “Sorry, daddy!” Yeah, well, that wasn’t the problem.

“Tom, did you hurt your foot?”

“Huh?” What the hell is she talking about. This doctor is way too strange. Maybe Evie shouldn’t trust her.

Now, Charlie widens her eyes even more. “Your foot. Is it hurt? Do you need help standing? I could help you standing. You don’t have to get up alone. You can lean on me. Got it?”

Oh. Ooooooh. Good plan. Acting hurt. Not humiliating. Having help standing up. Yup, he can do acting.

“Gottit.”

If she represses the urge to roll her eyes any harder, she’ll do physical damage to herself, Charlie’s sure. She huffs softly instead and holds out her hands. Tom’s eyes dart around suspiciously, as if he’s seeing four instead of two and trying to decide which one to grab. Really rolling her eyes this time, she grabs onto one of his arms instead, telling herself she shoulnd’t notice the softness of the well-worn sweater or the hardness of his bicep beneath it.

“Up you go, Tom. And don’t hurt your sore foot.”

He sways and groans a little, then gives a very convincing wince and an overly dramatic “ouch” that puts worry on Evie’s face. She flits anxiously around them like a puppy, and Charlie is also aware of their curious spectators.

By the time Tom has risen to his feet, leaning heavily on her, both of them are panting a bit. Charlotte loops one of his arms around her shoulders, realizing once again how incredibly tall he is. She’d bet her right foot that they look absolutely ridiculous, but she needs said foot not to fall flat on her face.

“Mary!” At her shout, her colleague finally runs over, her mouth twitching suspiciously. “Tell everyone I’m taking my lunch break half an hour early because…because…” She falters, biting her lip.

“‘Cause you’re my Good Sam…Sara…Samti…Sam-ri-tan and rescuing me,” Tom slurs helpfully, groaning out another “ow” for effect.

“Yeah. That.” Exasparated, Charlie exchanges a look with Mary, then begins to head off in the direction of the lift that’ll take them down to the garage. Evie is holding her father’s hand, silent and probably still worried.

The way along the corridor to the lifts seems endless. After what feels like half an eternity, Tom starts humming a marching tune under his breath and she’s THIS close to dumping him on his nicely firm arse.

Charlie’s just glad that she’s got her car keys in her pockets as well as her driver’s license. Not that it would matter at this point. There’s no way she’s walking any minute longer than necessary with Tom.

They reach the lifts and wait, Tom still humming, Evie oddly quiet.

“Where’re we going by th'way?” Tom asks after a moment.

“Taking you home of course.” She’s mad for doing this, isn’t she? Absolutely mad. She should just drop them inside a cab. It’s not like she’s responsible for them.

“In a cab?” comes Evie’s voice from Tom’s other side.

“No,” Charlie sighs as the doors open, “No, I’m taking you home in my car.”

Inside the lift, she pushes Tom against the wall where he stays put but closes his eyes while leaning his head against the wall.

“I’m not allowed to drive in strange cars except for cabs.”

Charlie can’t help but grin at the girl. “Your dad is with us, isn’t he?”

Evie points at him. “I think he’s sleeping again.”

A quick glance tells Charlie that the girl isn’t wrong. Tom is starting to sway again, and his mouth is just a tiny bit droopy. JFC, why? And why is the lift ride still not finished?

Tom starts to sag forward, and Charlie reacts on auto pilot. Because she knows he’s heavy–with hidden muscles beneath all that long-limbed litheness–she doesn’t try to grab him and get knocked over again. Instead, she takes a step towards him and uses her whole body to press him back against the lift wall and keep him upright.

Which was probably the wrong thing to do–because the next thing she knows, Tom’s arms snake around her waist and hold her tightly to him. She hears a soft, sleepy hum and then he’s nuzzling–nuzzling!–her again, the infuriating yet somehow adorable bastard.

Before she can focus on how nice it actually feels to be caught up in his embrace, Evie speaks again.

“Daddy says I can’t ride in a car that doesn’t have a child seat.” Her eyes round and she steps closer. “Oh. Do you have children, Charlie?”

It’s a very very strange situation, Charlie finds herself in. She’s not usually talking about so many things private with her patients - even the smallest ones. She’s not usually in an embrace in the lift with their fathers, either.

So, she shoves Tom a little, just touching his waist a bit. Maybe he’ll let go then? Or maybe he tightens his grip and mumbles, “Don’t go. ’S nice.” Yep. It’s option 2.

She sighs and then remembers Evie’s question. Charlie looks down at her, smiling as if this wasn’t the strangest lift ride they’ve ever been on.

“I have two nephews, Evie. One is still small, he can only just walk. But the other is a little bit older than you. And he sometimes drives with me. I have a seat for you, okay?”

Evie nods. “Okay.” Then she looks at Tom and Charlie, a little suspiciously. “Is Daddy really hurt?” She nibbles her lip worriedly.

“No. No, he isn’t. Don’t worry. He just practiced acting a little bit. He’s fine. I promise. Well…” she adds as an afterthought, “a little sleepy.”

Evie nods. “He sometimes standed with Mummy in the kitchen like that. When they were reeeeaaaaaally tired.”

Oh.

In that moment the lift arrives at their destination. Charlie looks at Tom. Really, she has to crane her neck actually, that’s how close they are.

She’s done whispering though. “Tom! Wake up, get up, we’re here, on to the car!” Trying to make it as light-hearted as possible she winks at Evie before slapping his waist.

He doesn’t budge at all, only tightens his grip yet again, mumbling, “Bossy. Like it. Don’ go.”

Lord help her, she’s so DONE with him right now, even though her mouth curves up in a reluctant grin.

“Evie, do you know your Daddy’s full name?”

The little girl, hopping from one foot onto the other outside the lift, looks confused, but nods. “Mummy used it sometimes. When she was angry with Daddy. Are you angry with Daddy just because he’s tired?”

Ugh.

“No, sweetie, but I need to wake him up and get him into the car, right? Tell me his full name. Didn’t you know that’s special magic if you want to get somebody’s attention?”

Eyes rounded, Evie shook her head. “Really? It’s Thomas. Tho-mas Wi-li-yum Hiddleston.”

With a wink and a meaningful nod, Charlie cranes her neck again and shouts right into the man’s ear. “Thomas William Hiddleston, get those long legs of yours moving. Now.”

Tom jerks so hard he bumps his head against the lift wall. She doesn’t know whether it’s that knock or her barked order, but he stands up straight and stares at her. For a moment, he looks sober, embarrassed and more like himself than for the past few hours (or is it only minutes?).

With a “yes, ma’am” so quiet she can barely hear it, he lets go of her and miraculously moves out of the lift without swaying too much.

* * *

Oh shit. With a sinking - a drowning feeling really - Tom realises that this, him being that drunk, should definitely not happen when another, any, woman is around.

He’s got no real recollection of how exactly he got here, but Evie’s here and he belatedly realises that it wasn’t Evie’s mother in that elevator. But the dream was nice.

It’s still blurry and he’s still far from sober, but at least he’s more awake now. Goodness, what a mess.

“Daddy?” his daughter asks and he slowly - ever so slowly - turns around. Not another fall, please. “Are you awake because Charlie said your whole name?”

“I… yeah. Think so, baby.”

His daughter beams at the doctor and his heart hurts. Good that he’s still numb. “It worked!” she shouts and Doctor Charlie laughs.

“It did.”

He blinks. God, he cuddled her, didn’t he? Not his daughter, not Emily but Charlie?! The doctor?

He just hopes he doesn’t throw up now, because the urge to do gets bigger now.

“So,” Charlie says as she steps out, and he unconsciously takes a step back. “My car’s that way.”

God, he’s really going to be sick. It’s still blurry but now he suddenly remembers her smell and he shouldn’t. He remembers Emily’s smell as well.

“Come, Daddy!” Evie takes his hand and he really tries hard not to sway when he grabs it.

“Yeah.”

Charlie keeps sneaking worried glances at Tom on the way to the car. The few meters feel like half a marathon, but he doesn’t fall flat down again, which is a huge plus. He doesn’t try to hug her again either, which is definitely another huge plus. Or is it? She’s got the weirdest notion that she can smell Tom on her. Not the mix of alcohol and coffee but something more masculine and unique.

She wonders what Tom’s thinking. His face alternates between looking green around the gills–please don’t let him puke in her car, please–and so devastatingly sad that she feels guilty. She’s got no idea why the hell she should feel any guilt, but she does. And she doesn’t like it one bit. He’s the one who should feel guilty for getting drunk.

Wordlessly, she helps Evie into the car, making sure she’s properly strapped into the seat. Tom stands on his side, holding the rear door handle and frowning.

With a sigh, she walks over, pats his hand away and opens it for him.

“Get in and buckle up. Or do I need to call you by your full name again?”

He flinches as if she’s slapped him.

“No, please don’t.” When Charlie blinks at his vehement reaction, he sniffles and mumbles a “sorry”. “It’s just… it brings back mem’ries.”

Charlie opens her mouth to say something–God knows what–and he puts up a hand, swaying dangerously and grunting. “No. Don’ say it. I know. ‘m a pat…patty…pathetic loser. ‘s no need to say it.”

While Tom maybe looks like it, Charlie feels as if she’s been slapped. In the face. She’s got no idea what to say to this. But she needs to, doesn’t she?

So, she closes the door again - Evie doesn’t have to hear whatever Charlie’s going to say - and tries to look into Tom’s eyes. Tries, because he begins to lose focus again and holds on to the top of the car.

“Tom,” she sighs. “I don’t even know if you’ll remember this in the morning, but here we go.”

He looks at her like she’s gone crazy and not for the first time today Charlotte actually feels like it.

“I don’t know how it feels to lose a wife -obviously - or a husband even, but I did lose loved ones or friends I truly loved. And goodness, I’ve seen many, many parents here and during my residency in the ER. I’ve seen people lose other people and you’re dealing with it like any normal person would.”

He shoots her a glance that’s a mix of “are you kidding me?” and “please tell me I’m doing this right.” She can’t answer any of those.

“But you’ve got Evie, Tom. I understand you panic when you go here, but you’re so lucky I was here today and that you weren’t just dropped into a cab and poor Evie has to see you stumble and puke your way back to your house. You can’t do this with her.”

She pauses a moment, then adds, “You shouldn’t do this alone either. But if you need to talk or getting stupidly drunk, call a friend. Get Evie to someone close for the night and hang out with friends. Talk to anyone, please. No-one is going to blame you for any of this. And nobody’s saying you’re a loser for mourning your dead wife three months after she died.”

He stares at her for what feels like an eternity and blinks. Then continues to stare at her. He nods slowly. “Can’t ‘member what you’ve said t'morrow. But thanks. And ’m not puking.”

“Yet,” she grins. “Now, get in.”

Charlie opens the door for him again, and takes a deep breath. She can’t really remember what she’s rambled there herself. But it feels a little bit like that speech drained herself as much as Tom.

* * *

On the drive to Tom’s house–she’s glad that Evie has been taught to know her address and obediently rattles it off because Tom can’t remember it–Charlie sticks to distracting Evie. She asks her innocent little questions about the house to keep her talking.

Ever so often, Charlie casts a nervous glance at Tom in the rearview mirror. First he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, but after a few moments of navigating the London traffic, he shot upright, looking suspiciously queasy. One of Charlie’s hands hovers near the glove compartment, ready to pull out a bag for him to retch into–but admirably, he holds himself together. His eyes stare intesenly at some vague point in the distance, and sometimes she can see his lips moving. What is he whispering to himself?

There’s a short lull in conversation as she navigates a turn, and she catches the snippet “To be or no’ t’bee.”

Huh, is he reciting Shakespeare to keep himself halfway sane? Praying it’ll be enough, Charlotte puts her foot more firmly on the gas.

* * *

They’ve made it. Tom has no idea how since he doesn’t even remember how they got past his gate, but they’re standing - well, he’s more leaning really - at his front door.

He’s even made it without puking. And he won’t be, he promises himself. He hasn’t done a great many things right these past couple of months, so he feels like this is an achievement he should be proud of.

Before he knows it, there are two, well four, faces staring at him. “Hm?” Did they say something? But what does he know, he’s glad he’s still somewhat standing.

“Your keys,” Charlie says again and holds out a hand.

Oh. The keys. Of course. Those keys. Yeah. Tom’s got no idea what she’s talking about. “Huh?”

His daughter - that little sassy thing - sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes. “Daddy you’re not so clever today.”

Doctor Charlie snorts as he stares at his daughter. “She’s a little right about that. The keys for the door, Tom.”

Oh! Yes! “Why di'nt you say so?” Surely, they’re in his pockets. Still, he just stands there, blinking.

“Oh for the love of all that’s holy, why me?!” Charlie mutters, which makes him blink harder. She shouldn’t notice how damn long his lashes are. Or how boyish he looks despite the scruff when he’s all clueless and drunk.

With a huff, she takes a step closer and sticks a hand down one pocket, wiggling her fingers around in desperate search of the door key. Why the hell does he have to wear jeans that are tight enough to be painted on?

Her knuckles brush against the skin only a thin layer of fabric away, and it dawns on her for a freak-out moment that she’s sort of touching Tom Hiddleston’s thigh. And that she should absolutely NOT let her gaze stray away from that pocket.

Holding her breath and steeling her resolve, Charlie digs around in the second pocket, still without finding anything even remotely key-shaped. Too done to bother with repeated instructions that aren’t followed, she grabs Tom by the hips and turns him, which earns her a “whoooooa”, a grunt and a lot of swaying, but thankfully no puking.

Tom instinctively braces himself with both hands against the door as his daughter giggles. Charlie bites her lip. To touch or not to touch that peachy arse she remembers too well from one–no, two, no actually three–movie scenes?

Determination wins over. Charlotte slides a hand into his back pocket, trying to ignore the knowledge that it’s a well-known fact that Tom Hiddleston hardly ever wears underwear. Just when she feels mortification crawl up her cheeks in a blush, her fingers encounter solid, ridged metal.

It registers belatedly that Tom’s voice has joined in on Evie’s giggles.

“You coul’ve jus’ tole me if you wanna touch my butt,” she hears between giggles.

A reluctant grin steals itself on Charlie’s face. This is the strangest lunch break she’s ever had. She shakes her head and sighs, finally fishing out the keys.

“Your daddy is a little naughty today, Evie,” she winks at the still giggling girl.

“So naughty,” the actor’s voice comes out between giggles. “But you’re the one’s touched m'butt. Liked it.” He snorts. “Naughty.”

Charlie ignores her warm and surely crimson face to simply roll her eyes and get that door open.

Tom’s still braced against it, so she simply moves next to him to open it. It swings open faster than she anticipated and before she can do anything about it, she feels Tom stagger behind her, basically taking her with him inside the house before they’re stopped by a wall.

Now she’s the one leaning against it while Tom’s hips bump into her from behind, the man towering above her. God, why?

“Sorry.” He doesn’t move though. “S’ sorry.”

She can hear Evie’s laugh as she enters the house. “You’re funny!”

He’s funny? Oh, sure. Yeah, he’s the funniest person on this planet. Finally someone who understands that. Where’s his romantic comedy?

Why’s the soft, nice-smelling woman in his arms not laughing?

Why’s he holding a woman in his arms that’s not Emily or Emma or Sarah or his mum?

Tom frowns. His mum would kill him if she knew he’d gotten drunk in Evie’s presence.

Suddenly he doesn’t feel so funny anymore. He’s moving, not sure how or why or where, but at long last there’s no more woman in his arms. Tom leans his back against the wall and tries his damndest to remember why he was deemed so funny just a moment ago. Has he missed the joke? Hey, he wants to laugh too.

He tries a grin, but movement in his periphery distracts him.

The woman he shouldn’t hold–though he has no idea why–bends down to his daughter, talking in an urgent, hushed voice. Charlie. His Good Samaritan.

Where was Emily’s Samaritan when she needed one?

He hears something about “not alone”, “help” and “call Auntie Emma”, then realizes he’s moving again. Evie is holding his left hand, Charlie his right, and he’s being escorted into the living room–well, he thinks it’s the living room. It has kinda twice the amount of furniture it’s suposed to have, and it’s spinning funnily. Did it always do that?

He sinks willingly down onto the sofa, legs sprawled out, head lulling back. The two voices and four bodies are fading.

Why did he want to be funny again? It’s not like anyone would hire him in a comedy now anyway. Fucked up. That’s him now. A fucking mess.

Tom closes his eyes against the bitterness…and falls asleep.

* * *

When he opens his eyes again, it’s way too bright, someone is trying to crack his skull open with a sledgehammer, and the dryness and taste in his mouth tell him that he’s had an unpleasant meeting with the toilet probably.

At least, he seems to be in his room. Although he’s got no idea how he’s made it here and when.

He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes. At least he thinks it’s the next day. It’s too bright not to be. Or he’s dead, but it hurts too much for it.

Tom stomps down the thoughts that make him a little disappointed not to see Emily again.

With a groan he tries to turn around. Images flash before his eyes. The last thing he clearly remembers is getting into a lift. From there it’s lots of shoving, pushing and being dragged somewhere.

The lovely face of Doctor Charlie appears somewhere in his mind mixing with those of Evie and strangely his sister.

He hears  _“Daddy’s sleepy and talking funny”_  as well as  _“Hey there, big brother. Enough sleeping, up you go.”_

Tom also slowly remembers being shoved not too gently into the bathroom and back to his bedroom.

He groans as the thought of the bathroom makes his bladder speak up. He can’t get up. “Fuck it,” he rasps, as he heaves his heavy body up in a spinning, but sitting position and braces himself with one arm against the wall on the way to the en-suit.

When he’s done he washes his hands and stares into his pale face, red-rimmed eyes and tossled hair.

He’s got no idea how he’s ended up here.

He knows one thing though, and it makes his face go even paler in the mirror.

He has to stop drinking to drown his sorrows.

Not because of the inhuman pain in his head. Not because of the mortifying realization that a virtual stranger helped him before his sister took over (he’s NOT looking forward to the consequences of that, no sir) but because of his daughter.

Evie is all he has left of Emily, and he’s all that Evie has. Why the fuck did he have to seek solace in a bottle–well, lots of bottles–instead of being two parents in one?

Tom opens the sink tap on icy cold and sticks his head under the running water, wincing and making an odd groaning-yowling sound when the pain becomes a million times worse before his brain feels a little less fuzzy.

He should probably ask someone for help. But he’s never been good at that. He’s usually the one helping others.

Oh god, oh god, where to go from here?


End file.
